Change of Scenery
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl, AU. Oneshot. Daryl stops at a truck stop one night for a cup of coffee and a change of scenery. I own nothing from the Walking Dead.


**AN: This is just a little one-shot in response to a Tumblr prompt that wanted Carol and Daryl meeting at a diner. It's just for fun.**

 **I hope that you enjoy! Let me know what you think!**

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If he was going to keep going, he needed the elixir of life.

Right now, that's what Daryl considered coffee, and he needed it desperately. There were only two hours to home—two hours until a three day break—and Daryl was torn. He didn't want to sleep. He didn't want to break his rhythm that completely. Once he fell asleep, it was almost a guarantee that he'd sleep longer than he intended or he'd wake up with some kind of fatigue-induced hangover. He couldn't keep going, though, if he didn't do _something_. The monotony of the almost empty highway, at this point, was starting to hypnotize him. He knew, as well as any trucker did, that could be a dangerous situation.

Instead of breaking entirely and pulling off to sleep—sleep he'd save for when he was comfortable in his own bed with no one telling him when the hell he had to get back up—Daryl decided to go the next obvious route and stop off somewhere for a quick bite to eat and some coffee to kick-start his senses. He could ride those fumes back home.

There were at least six more mile signs to pass before there was any indication that there was somewhere he might be able to park the big truck comfortably. Finally one of the highway signs advertised a truck stop and Daryl took the exit. Coming up on the place, it was a veritable ghost town. There were four trucks parked there—two with their lights on which meant they were more than likely sleeping—and Daryl didn't see a single car. Beggars, though, couldn't be choosers.

Daryl found a place to park and radioed in to his boss—probably asleep manning his desk—and let him know he was pulling off. He rolled his eyes at the response, one that told him he should've pulled off at least an hour before, and he opened the truck and got out.

The truck stop boasted a small restaurant and a gas station. It wasn't even one of the jazzier joints that had pay-as-you-use showers. Still, Daryl didn't want anything fancy so it would do. Walking up to it he stretched as legs as much as he could. He peeked into the windows of the diner and saw that there were two truckers in there. One was holding down a booth, half-asleep, and the other was sitting near the register, eating a sandwich, and chatting with a young waitress who had it written all over her face that she was only standing there with the hope that the road-ragged trucker left her a decent tip. The no-smoking sign told Daryl that if he wanted a cigarette, he'd better have it in the parking lot.

So he did. He walked, as quickly as his tired legs would let him, up and down the sidewalk outside of the diner. When he'd smoked most of the cigarette, his own breath fogging to the point he couldn't tell what was air and what was smoke when he exhaled, Daryl dropped the butt on the ground and snubbed it out with his shoe. He let himself into the diner and was immediately hit with a wave of hot air that was almost suffocating.

It was cold out, but it wasn't _that_ cold out. The heat in the place, touching somewhere around tropical, was a bit overdone.

Daryl went straight to the bar area and sat down. He looked around and located a menu for himself before the waitress appeared in front of him to offer him the customary cutlery and napkin.

"Can I get you something to drink?" She asked.

"Coffee," Daryl said, not bothering to look up from the menu.

He'd been driving more years than he hadn't at this point in his life. The hours sucked, but the pay was good. He had good benefits. Other people he drove with at different points in his life seemed to drop out of the profession, if it could be called that, mostly because they complained about not being home with their wives and kids. Daryl didn't have a wife, and he didn't have any kids that he knew about, so there wasn't much need in worrying about whether or not he was home. His truck, most of the time, felt more like his home than anything else—everything he really needed was there anyway. His bed, honestly, and being able to stretch out as much as he wanted, was the only reason he ever even missed the single-wide that he called his "home".

Having driven that many years meant that he'd been damn near everywhere in the continental United States. He'd sat at tables, booths, and bars at hundreds of truck stop diners. They were all the same. The staff was the same—tired and usually showing signs of being down on their luck—and the menus were the same. There were "safe" items and then there were those that you knew that nobody with a lick of sense had ever ordered.

Daryl was a safe kind of man.

When the coffee appeared in front of him, Daryl looked up from the menu for the first time. He felt his lips turn up into a smile that came simply as a response to the genuine one that he was getting from the waitress—usually they didn't smile like that. She smiled like she meant it.

"Can I get you something to eat?" She asked, leaning on her side of the bar.

Daryl swallowed. He'd settled on something to eat, but he'd forgotten what it was in the short span of time that he'd been staring at her. Carol, or so her name tag said.

"Uh—what the hell's good here?" He asked.

"How long you been awake?" She asked. "We've got really good burgers. But the breakfast? It's the way to go if you're in the mood for it."

Daryl didn't want to admit how long he'd been awake. He wasn't sure, honestly, that it was at all legal for him to even be awake right now.

"Breakfast," he said.

"What's your breakfast pleasure?" She asked.

Daryl swallowed. He was pretty sure that responding "anything as long as you're serving it," wasn't exactly kosher. It was the kind of response his brother might give, but it wasn't acceptable. Neither was the response of "shit, I don't care—I can't even think right now" that his brain offered him after that. He couldn't tell the waitress that she'd disarmed him to the point that he couldn't even order eggs without assistance. He couldn't tell her that he was having a hard time figuring out how he was going to stop staring at her.

Her smile was beautiful. Her eyes were incredible. And that wasn't just the lack of sleep talking.

He gave up trying and finally just shrugged.

"What would you have?" He asked.

A sign of amusement flitted across her features. She was a little taken aback, maybe, that he was asking her opinion so much—but only a little. More than likely this woman was not unaccustomed to men who were unable to function well around her.

"How hungry are you?" Carol asked.

"Starving," Daryl said. Immediately he wondered what had possessed him to say that. He really hadn't been starving when he'd come in. He'd thought he might have a little something to eat—something to hold him over. But right now? He felt like he could eat them out of half their supplies.

Carol smiled.

"Then I'd have the Breakfast Bonanza," Carol said. "It's got everything you might want. Just a little bit of everything."

Daryl nodded.

"You want that?" She asked.

He nodded again. If he didn't get his shit together, Carol was going to begin to wonder whether or not he should be given keys to a truck.

"I'll put it your order in," she said. She turned her back to him and immediately Daryl wished he had something to draw her back. There were two other waitresses in the place—overkill for a night so slow—and he watched as they basically hung around popping gum and occasionally refilling a glass. Carol was the oldest of them, easily. Maybe that meant she'd been trapped there longer than they had—but it hadn't seemed to jade her. "You need some more coffee?" Carol asked, coming back to wipe something up nearby without looking at him.

Daryl had entirely forgotten about the coffee. He picked it up, drank two large gulps out of it, and then very nearly threw the mug because he hadn't realized it would only be a few degrees cooler than molten lava.

"Fuck," he sputtered, making connection with the cup and the counter.

Carol laughed. She stopped what she was doing and walked to stand in front of him again. She picked up his mug and quickly wiped away what he'd splashed out before putting it down again.

"I just made that," she said. "It's fresh. And probably pretty hot...I guess I should've said something."

Daryl chuckled then and shook his head at her.

"No," he said. "Hell no—any idiot knows that coffee's supposed to be hot..."

"But you didn't," Carol teased.

Daryl liked the way the corners of her mouth curled up, just slightly, when she teased him.

"I'm not just any idiot," he offered.

She smiled fully then.

"Do you have a name?" Carol asked.

"Daryl," Daryl said.

"Carol," she said.

Daryl smiled and nodded.

"I know," he said, gesturing toward her tag. "I saw it. I'm observant like that. Even if I don't know the damn hot coffee is hot."

Carol laughed quietly and examined her name tag like, maybe, she hadn't looked at it often before. Then she looked back at Daryl.

"Where are you coming from?" She asked, leaning on the bar again. "Where are you headed?"

"Going back home," Daryl said. "Just outside Atlanta. Been to Ohio, this time."

"Did you like it there?" Carol asked.

Daryl shrugged gently.

"I've been all over the place," he said. "But—it's not like I stay there long enough to form much of an opinion. Every place is just like the next. Worst part about it was the snow."

"I love snow," Carol said, some enthusiasm in her voice.

Daryl laughed to himself.

"Everybody does when they ain't driving in it," he commented. "You're from around here?"

Carol laughed to herself.

"If I wasn't, would I be working here?" She asked, looking around the diner.

"Could've relocated," Daryl offered.

"Right to the armpit of Georgia," Carol teased. "There's a big rush to get here. Almost couldn't find housing."

"Driving a truck ain't exactly glamorous," Daryl responded.

Carol hummed.

"You get to go places," she said. "You get to see things."

"And one highway looks just about like another," Daryl said. "Scenery ain't bad sometimes, but..."

He let it trail off. He really didn't have an end for the statement. There was no grand piece of secret information that he could give her. The scenery could be nice. Maybe it was nice seeing new places. Most of the places he saw, though, were just a blur. Even remembering them always left him with pictures in his head that were just out of focus—the details lost in his concern over the time or over the next hurdle he had to jump. He never enjoyed, really, any one stop because he was always thinking about the one that would come next. Mostly, though, he figured it was just like everything else—you got used to what you got used to.

"Scenery never changes here," Carol said. She sighed, even if her expression didn't reflect the change in her tone, and she jumped a little when she heard the bell from the kitchen. "I'll be back," she said. "That's your breakfast. I'll refresh your coffee when I get back—but don't burn yourself."

Daryl laughed to himself and drank from the coffee more carefully this time. He watched as the woman walked toward the kitchen. She was a tiny thing. Almost birdlike. She was probably about his age, though her hair was more silver than his was. She was stuck here—stuck in this life—just as sure as he was stuck in his.

When Carol returned, she put a plate of food down in front of Daryl that could have fed a small country and she refilled his coffee cup. She walked around, for a moment, overseeing things within the diner and taking care of everything she could seem to think to do, and then she came back to stand near him and wait for him to finish eating.

Daryl would normally gulp his food. His brother had always joked that Daryl hadn't chewed once in his life. He'd gone from swallowing down milk to swallowing down food and he'd never quite gotten the hang of chewing—but right now? He was savoring every taste and chewing much more carefully than he could ever recall chewing anything.

And the food was fine—but it didn't have a thing to do with the food.

Daryl was realizing that when he finished the food, and when he'd drank his way through two more cups of coffee at best, he'd have no reason to stay there. He'd have to leave and finish the last couple of hours back home.

He just wasn't ready to go. Not yet. Even if he didn't really have a reason to stay and shouldn't prolong his departure too long given his fatigue.

So he took his time with the food and he drank the coffee slowly—coffee that Carol refilled almost swallow by swallow. He shared some light chatter with Carol—answered some questions about where he'd been and tried to ask some questions about her life when he could think of them—and they laughed at a few quick jokes.

But eventually, the meal was over. Daryl sat there, finishing his last cup of coffee, while Carol cleared his plates. He offered her money for the ticket and went to the bathroom while she rang him up and squared away the bill. When he came back out, he counted out a more-than-necessary tip and dropped it on the clean bar in front of where he'd been sitting.

There was nothing left to do but turn around and walk out the door. At best, if it were any other diner and she were any other waitress, he might have offered a "goodnight" thrown over his shoulder.

But Daryl hung there, frozen.

"You want me to fix you some coffee to go?" Carol asked. "We have cups with lids and everything."

Daryl realized she was probably wondering why he wasn't moving on. She wanted to make it better, whatever it might be, as a tribute to her dedication to a job in the service industry.

Daryl cleared his throat and shook his head.

"No," he said. "No," he repeated for good measure.

From where she was standing, Carol looked at him with a furrowed brow.

"Is there anything else I can get you? Something for the—for the road?" She asked.

Daryl shook his head again and leaned against the bar that he was no longer sitting at. Carol stepped up to her side of it and somewhat leaned into him like she expected him to tell her a secret. Except, Daryl didn't have a secret to share. He had to say something, though—and the feeling that he couldn't leave her standing there, wondering if he was crazy, was probably the only thing that prompted him to speak at all.

"I know you don't—know me," he said. "And I don't know you..."

"No," she said, shaking her head at him. "At least, not really." She offered him a smile, this time with some discomfort showing on her features that he wished he'd never put there.

"But—uh—I pass through this way a lot," Daryl said. "And I could—swing back by here. If you're workin' sometime..."

She straightened up. The smile was more genuine.

"And I'd love to see you," she said. "Absolutely—come on by. Check in?"

Daryl nodded.

"Maybe—if you ever got tired of bein' here? In the one place and all? Maybe—sometime when I swung by? If you could get off work then I could—well, maybe you could, if you wanted to, ride along with me somewhere." Daryl was pretty sure he'd choke on the words before he ever got them out. Somehow, though he managed to spit them out. Immediately he was a little horrified at how they sounded. She would probably go home and invest in a greater level of home security after such a suggestion. "Change of scenery?" Daryl added, nearly coughing out the words. He bit his own tongue to keep from muttering profanity at himself over the whole situation. "I'm not making it any better..." he said. "I'ma just—go now."

Carol laughed quietly. She seemed genuinely amused. If she was horrified, she hid it as well as she hid any disappointment she might feel about her life.

"A change of scenery," she repeated. "I like that. I'd—like that. But..."

"I get it," Daryl said.

And before he let her finish what followed the "but," and before he let the situation get any worse than it was—if that was even humanly possible—he muttered a thanks and left the diner. Outside, at least, he was able to try to recover from his mortification in the cold. Daryl lit a cigarette. He started the walk toward his truck, purposefully stretching his legs as he went. He only stopped when he heard Carol call his name.

"I'm sorry," Daryl said, turning around. "I know it was stupid and probably creepy as hell. I promise. You don't gotta worry. I ain't some kinda damn nut job that's gonna—show up in your bushes or some shit."

Carol laughed.

"I don't think you're a nut job," she said. She crossed her arms across her chest as she reached Daryl. It was clearly cold for her. "And I don't have bushes. Maybe if I thought you were crazy it would be pretty creepy but—I thought it was sweet. Nobody's tried to pick me up in— _years_. And you _really_ tried to pick me up."

Daryl felt his face burn hot.

"I'm sorry," he repeated.

"Don't be," Carol said. "It was flattering. I liked it. Here..."

She held her hand out and when Daryl accepted what she was giving him, he could only see that it was a slip from the restaurant. The kind she'd written his order on. It was too dark to see anything else.

"What?" He asked.

"My number," Carol said. "If you're coming through—I thought you might want to at least know if I'm working. Or—if I have some time off."

Daryl's stomach flipped. He looked at her, a little amazed that she would give him her number, and she gave him the same award-winning smile she'd worn when she'd served him his coffee.

"A change of scenery might be good," Carol said. "And—at least—we could get to know each other, right?"

Daryl nodded.

"You do have a phone?" Carol asked, some teasing coming into her tone of voice.

"Of course I got a phone," Daryl said. She nodded and he smirked. "I tied the knot in the damn soup can myself," he said.

She laughed and rocked on her feet—he was suddenly made aware again of how cold it was and the fact that she was probably freezing in her short sleeves.

"I'll call you," he said.

"You better," Carol responded. "Ball's in your court. I don't have your number."

"I could..." Daryl said as he started searching his pockets, but there was really no use. He knew he didn't have a pen on him. He didn't even have his phone on him. It was in the truck. It didn't matter, though, because Carol just shook her head at him and waved her hands like she was waving away the number that he couldn't even offer her.

"I like it better this way," she said. "Ball's in your court. You call. I'll answer."

"Be going out this way in a week," Daryl offered.

Carol nodded. She didn't allow him to say anything more. Just as he'd left the diner abruptly, Carol turned and called a goodnight to him as she practically jogged back toward the warmth of the tropical diner.

Daryl laughed to himself and pocketed the phone number before he returned to his truck and got back out on the highway. The two hours back home didn't seem as long once he was thinking about Carol and trying to decide just how long it would be polite to wait before he called. He didn't really feel sleepy anymore and he didn't really mind the monotony of the highway that he'd driven at least a million times before.

A change of scenery, it seemed, could be good for Daryl too.


End file.
